


La Moitié de la Preuve

by iberiandoctor (jehane)



Category: French History RPF, Political RPF - France 19th c.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It of Sorts, Loyalty, M/M, Manipulation, Not A Fix-It, Politics, Revenge, The Guns Scandal, The Real Story, class politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-22 05:58:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17054468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor
Summary: What’s written in the newspapers is often only half the story.





	La Moitié de la Preuve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kainosite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kainosite/gifts).



> Beta by miss_m and raspberryhunter <3
> 
> Title, details and the _Le Constitutionnel_ headline from Armand Marrast’s opening address in [_Procès des fusils-Gisquet, plainte en diffamation de MM. Casimir-Périer et Soult v Armand Marrast, 29 Octobre 1831_](https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k5545923z/f12.image.texteImage).

**March, 1825**

It had been a mild winter, and an even more temperate spring. Two men stood on the balcony of the upper floor of France’s first savings bank, the Caisse d’Épargne et de Prévoyance de Paris on Rue Richlieu, surveying the street below. 

At this early hour, the quotidian sounds of the bustling city rose up to meet them: workers hurrying to their morning shifts, carts rattling by laden with wares for the day’s trade. Newspaper vendors had begun to ply their business with their armloads of _Le Messager_ and _Le Moniteur_ , and also the other republican broadsheets with which both men were also familiar.

By way of example — yesterday’s _La Tribune_ headline had read: _MUCH PUBLIC EXPENSE! Charles X to be crowned in Reims in the way of ancestors!_

As the men were well aware, this was only half of the story. It was not just the new king’s decision to be crowned that hearkened back to the old ways. Charles X had sought to restore the Ancien Régime and the past glories of the Bourbon Empire, and with them, to reverse the industrialisation and increasing freedoms and prosperity that the last decades had brought to all societies of France. 

Only one of the men was contemplating these widespread political changes, his tall, powerful figure silhouetted on the balcony as a general’s in command of his troops. The other, a younger man, with his soldier’s build and one sleeve empty, was contemplating changes of a far more personal nature. 

“I will miss this,” the former soldier mused, finally.

The general smiled down at him. “Nonsense. You may visit here any time you wish, and your new offices are a stone’s throw from our old ones on the Rue Neuve du Luxembourg. Not that the new president of Bank Gisquet would have much time to spare to visit an old friend.”

The young M. Gisquet was not drawn in by this sally, and his older friend persisted: “I know you have your eye on a sugar refinery in Saint-Denis. I am sure we can come to some arrangement on that front as well, Henri.”

“That is very generous, Monsieur,” Henri murmured. “But there are other things more important than business. Do you mean to release me from your patronage?”

It was Monsieur’s turn to fall silent. Henri hesitated, and then placed his one good hand over the other’s nearer one. He said, “As it has been in the fifteen years of my employ at Bank Périer, my place is at your side.”

Monsieur Périer returned the warm clasp. “And it will always be, as long as you wish it. Consider your new position a graduation to the better things that you desire — a place in society, above the station of your birth, the ability to influence the lot of the common man.”

Henri Gisquet hesitated, then he drew himself to his full height. The rising sun made a crown of his fair head. “I will do my utmost to be worthy of the opportunity.”

“I am certain of it,” Périer said, in a tone of voice both amused and fond. “And as we are to be equals, you should become better accustomed to addressing me in the informal, and by my first name.” 

 

 

**November, 1830**

The headline at the _Moniteur_ was uncharacteristically grim. _INSTABILITY IN BELGIUM – SHOULD FRANCE MAKE PREPARATIONS FOR WAR?_.

This was accurate enough, but the new President of the Chamber of Deputies knew that it was not the full story. As was, also, the case with _Le Constitutionnel’s_ more sensationalist _Great events are preparing! NO ONE ARE BETTER THAN WE IN A POSITION TO KNOW THEM; they will be likely to bring about a noticeable change in the current situation of Europe!_

Great events were indeed in the air, albeit ones that were only partially foreshadowed by the newspapers, and no man knew them better than Casimir-Pierre Périer. 

Winter had come early to Paris, after the conflagration brought about by the three glorious days of revolutionary summer which had seen the last of the Bourbon kings, and the long autumn’s work in building Louis-Philippe’s consensus as the new King of the French. Frost hung from the tree-lined avenues of the Rue Neuve du Luxembourg, the venerable cobblestoned streets covered by a thin layer of ice. 

M. Périer was not a man to complain of the cold, but he did not recollect the otherwise well-appointed interior rooms of Bank Gisquet being quite this chilly. Perhaps this was a harbinger of France’s future fortunes, or at least of his welcome at the hands of M. Gisquet, his former protégé and the bank’s president. 

Périer dearly hoped that was not the case. He had come here with a particular mission — a personal one, and one with which he rather hoped that Gisquet would see fit to align. 

“We all must tighten our belts during these troubled times, Monsieur,” Gisquet’s secretary advised as he showed Périer into the president’s antechamber. Périer had not seen Jules-Ernest in months, not since the suspension of the Chamber of Deputies in the spring. He privately noted that the comely young man was as fastidious in dress as he had always been, even though he had had to resort to wearing his overcoat indoors.

“I did not recall you being such a patriot, my boy.”

“As M. Gisquet says, we are all sons of Patria, high and low-born alike,” Jules-Ernest said, loftily. 

Périer hid his frown. He had initially assumed Gisquet had spent the last few years with the republican rabble-rousers at _Aide toi, le ciel t’aidera_ merely to take the pulse of other new like-minded bourgeoisie, but it seemed that Gisquet might have ended up genuinely embracing the society’s liberal views; at any rate, he appeared to be espousing them amongst his employees. 

Gisquet’s rooms were similarly cold, and furthermore were almost imperceptibly altered. It took a moment to realise what was different. The Delacroix and Camille Corot paintings that had hung on the panelled walls had been replaced by cheaply-framed political posters. So the rumours regarding Bank Gisquet’s debts had the ring of truth. Now that Périer had the confirmation, from his own eyes, he was certain that this could be turned to his advantage.

The man himself had likewise been subtly altered. The carefully pressed hair, the alluring contrast between aristocratic cheekbones and the working-class physique, were much as Périer recalled, but there was something distant in the gaze of his former protégé. For the first time in their acquaintance, he was unsure of how to read those cold green eyes. 

“Well met, Henri. I am glad to see Bank Gisquet continuing to prosper under the current economic challenges.”

Gisquet bowed perfunctorily; he smiled a thin smile that barely called those cheekbones into play. “The economy is indeed challenging, thanks to the old regime. Still, we who are but poor servants of the King do what we must.”

If this was merely rhetoric, Gisquet was performing it rather well. M. Périer forced a charming smile of his own. “Come now, these sentiments may be suited to the slogans of _Le ciel t’aidera_ , but you do not need such humble self-effacement before an old friend.”

Périer had intended to bestir warm memories of their past accord; indeed, no more than a year ago Gisquet would have insisted on taking that smile as an invitation. Now, the man seemed unmoved as he remarked, “It is hardly self-effacement to remark upon the excesses of our previous sovereign, which the mob, as your fellows like to call them, have seen fit to depose.”

He shrugged elaborately, the gesture putting Périer in mind not of the hot-blooded nights they had shared, but the intelligence that Gisquet had encouraged the gutter press to print pro-republican stories in defiance of royal decree, and had been seen handing out arms to revolutionaries during the insurrection. Périer had initially assumed these reports were false; now, looking into his former protégé’s obdurate countenance, he realised they were, after all, true.

The discovery temporarily took the wind from Périer’s sails. Into this silence, Gisquet continued, tartly, “I was surprised to hear Louis-Philippe made Jacques Laffitte prime minister instead of you — especially given the rumours of Laffitte & Co’s financial troubles.” He shrugged again. “Perhaps I should not have been surprised. Our new King of the French seems keen not to repeat his predecessor’s errors, and has sought to ally himself to the common man. He would have little fondness for you, and you for him.”

Périer drew in a deep breath. If Gisquet had truly cast in his lot with their new constitutional monarch, the choice of their fickle people, and had set aside his loyalties to his former patron, then he would be of no assistance to Périer’s mission and might even be a danger to it.

No. He would not believe it. He had welcomed Henri Gisquet into his patronage as a boy of sixteen, had given him a career and a place in high society; he had taught the young man everything he knew, including many of the lessons that he, Périer, himself had learned at the feet of his own patron. He would hold firm to the belief that such lessons, and such intimacies, would not be so easily forgotten.

“My dear Henri. You of all people ought to know the regard I have for the common man, and my keenness that he should rise above his humble origins. After all, when I met you, I knew you were a most uncommon man, and rather than keeping you at my side, I saw you raised to the apex of society.”

This, at least, found its mark. There was a flicker in those green eyes of something Périer recognised; the arrogance and ambition of a young man in a hurry, the gratitude of a then-inexperienced lover who had been avid for knowledge and advancement, and also for affection. Then it was gone; quickly masked.

“How are you, Casimir? I haven’t seen you in these parts since Charles X dissolved the Chamber of Deputies. You must have been extremely busy suspending freedoms of the press and suchlike.”

This was a very direct approach, even for Gisquet, who had either unlearned all the subtleties of negotiation which Périer could have sworn he had successfully taught him, or was trying to convey a message.

Well. If his former protégé was in the mood for directness, Périer would gladly indulge him. He reached out and clasped Gisquet’s hand in both his own.

“Indeed. As you note, I’ve been busy trying to keep my job under the new regime. We have not seen each other in months, and I confess I am the poorer for it.”

He tried to draw Gisquet close to him, and was astounded when the man held himself stiffly at arm’s length instead, stating, “I very much doubt that, Monsieur. Still. No one could have resented the service you have rendered to our former king and to the Dauphin. No doubt you would have had much largesse to occupy yourself with at the behest of Louis-Antoine himself.”

This time, Périer could not conceal his frown. Gisquet had kept his tone light, almost casual, but underneath was that deep current of pride, an underlying resentment that stemmed from his humble beginnings…

As a bolt from the heavens, Périer understood what had transpired. He also understood he might have badly miscalculated matters as they stood. 

He seized hold of those robust shoulders in his two hands. “Good God, man, surely you cannot begrudge my season with the Dauphin? He had great need of friends, especially in the last days of the House of Bourbon!”

“The Dauphin no longer,” Gisquet said, coldly, turning his face away to stare at a fixed point on the ceiling. “Of course you are at liberty to befriend anyone you choose, Casimir. And Louis-Antoine’s _friendship_ must have been a most alluring prospect.”

“One does not choose a Prince. One is chosen. Unlike how a patron and a protégé choose one other.” Périer studied the elegant line of Gisquet’s neck, the tender white skin above the silk of his cravat, memory welling up within him. “And how you chose me, those many years ago.”

A reluctant smile touched Gisquet’s mouth. He half-turned his head back to Périer, murmuring, “As you well know, it was you who chose when I came to see you in the spring of 1808. Do not think for a moment that I believe that you did not choose him, either.” 

Périer considered dissembling, and decided that he would not do his protégé the disservice; besides, it was unlikely to be a successful strategy. Instead, he said, slowly, “You’re right, of course. Then, and now. But I am glad you chose me in return, Henri, and I hold dear the time we spent together. My time with Louis-Antoine did not change that, nor alter my political sympathies.”

He caressed the shoulders under his hands, meaningfully, and this time Gisquet permitted himself to be drawn in. “Well, I did not think you had become an ultra-royalist in your advanced age,” he drawled, raising his face to Périer’s at last to let himself be kissed.

Périer savoured the taste — that alluring contrast between the vintage Armagnac which Gisquet had learned to appreciate at Bank Périer, and the cigarettes he had continued to smoke after he had left the military. Royal lovers and the haute bourgeoisie had their many charms, but it was the eager virility of the common man raised to the peak of society that truly roused the blood. 

In the circumstances, it would not be unbecoming to kneel before such a man, as he had knelt before his Prince. 

It had not been an act which the former president of Bank Périer had previously undertaken before his protégé, but — with the throaty noises wrung from Gisquet’s mouth, the fluttering of muscles in the man’s comely thighs, the initially muffled cries that became more and more urgent as he finally abandoned himself to pleasure — it was one which he could see himself growing accustomed. 

Afterwards, they took themselves over to the day-bed beside Gisquet’s writing-desk. Périer permitted Gisquet to return the compliment, and was gratified to note that his former protégé had lost none of his old skill, and possibly even gained a certain further aptitude. Perhaps he had Jules-Ernest to thank, or one of the other employees with whom Gisquet might have sought to expiate his resentment on the Dauphin’s account. 

The encounter was so pleasant that Périer found himself lingering, uncharacteristically, in his state of undress. He would have to own to it: the taste of Gisquet’s hard-won surrender was extremely alluring.

“I’ll wager your royal friend wouldn’t do that half as well,” Gisquet remarked lazily. In the last of the afternoon sunlight, he looked almost as young as he’d been twenty years ago, when he’d first come to Bank Périer looking for employment.

Périer murmured, “My dear, is this really why you aligned yourself with liberals against the Bourbon Empire?”

“Hardly,” returned Gisquet, in a defiant tone. “The Ancien Régime is a thing of the past, Casimir. Even you cannot turn back the clock, for your Dauphin’s sake or even your own.”

“I don’t disagree, Henri. But I have no faith in popular revolution, and neither should you. The common man must be allowed to rise, but civil unrest without a desired outcome can only destabilise France, both abroad as well as at home.”

Gisquet propped himself on his elbow, the better to stare into Périer’s face. “And I suppose you do in fact have a desired outcome,” he said, tartly. 

Périer hid his smile. Gisquet had always been intelligent, with a photographic memory that had first led to Périer employ him decades ago, but his prideful self-regard always tended to cloud his judgment, and Périer could not now find it within himself to be displeased by this otherwise inconvenient display of insight.

Now, to the real mission at hand. “I do,” he said. “I am here with a commission for Bank Gisquet. Due to the escalating tensions in Belgium, and in Poland, the Prime Minister has agreed we should prepare for a possible outbreak of war. The government has been offered 200,000 rifles and other armaments from our friends across the Channel, at 35 francs a piece, and I have convinced Laffitte that it is your bank that should provide the financing.”

Gisquet was silent for a moment, then he said, slowly, “That sounds very expensive. Have the English developed a new model of rifle? I’m certain M. Delvigne would be able to offer his new chambered rifles— I forget the actual name — to the French war effort at a much lower wholesale price.”

Périer felt his mouth twist upwards. “I am in fact told the guns on offer are aged ones which the British wish to retire from their own military service. Muzzle-loading smoothbore muskets, which have been in use at the Tower of London since George II’s day.”

“I see.” Gisquet mulled this over. “And how much is the proposed commission?”

“Six francs a gun. Shared down the middle with Rothchild, who brokered the deal on the British side.”

Gisquet was silent. The winter sun slid below the horizon; soon, they would need to have Jules-Ernest light candles in the room. Eventually, he said, “What would the press say about this, if this questionable transaction comes to light?”

Indeed, that was the question, and this, the response Périer had come here to convey. 

“It could be the usual incompetence, of course. Then again, _La Tribune_ would likely accuse the government of some fraud or other, that one or two ministers had obtained a _pot-de-vin_ over this deal. And the conspiracy theorists at _Le Constitutionnel_ might suggest collusion on behalf of the duchess of Berry and the former house of Bourbon, coincidentally currently exiled to Britain.” 

Gisquet’s green eyes were bright and fierce. “And which of them would be right?”

“As you know, the newspapers only print half the story. Which I am actually rather counting on, Henri.” 

“Indeed,” Gisquet said, thoughtfully. “I suppose Louis-Philippe would consider fourteen hundred thousand francs a small price to pay the British for taking the Bourbons off his hands.”

“It’s only a fraction of the real amount, of course.” Périer himself was not certain of the full extent of the deal that was struck — to grant Charles’ household safe entry, and to keep them there, out of politics, and also out of harm’s way. He took a moment to remember Louis-Antoine’s gentle smile, and their idle dreams of ruling the civilised world together. Then, briskly: “In any case, as you say, Louis-Philippe doesn’t trust me. He thinks the guns commission is Laffitte’s idea, and for that matter so does Laffitte.”

“I suppose I don’t mind Laffitte thinking I’d do his dirty work, as long as it’s not really _his_ dirty work I’m doing. Will our Prime Minister personally sign off on the requisition himself?”

Périer smiled with all his teeth: he had saved the best part of his plan for the last. “As it happens, Marshall Jean-de-Dieu Soult will soon be sworn in as War Minister.”

Gisquet frowned, and then he broke into peals of appreciative laughter, and Périer laughed with him. The stiff-necked Marshall of the Empire, who had commanded the armies amongst whose ranks the young Henri Gisquet had once served, was a fervent royalist and favourite of Louis-Philippe’s; he would be a danger to France’s new freedoms as well as a barrier to Périer’s own path to power.

“Good God, remind me never to turn my back on you!” Still laughing, Gisquet slung his good arm around Périer’s neck. “You’d actually welcome a war, wouldn’t you — against the Marshall if not against the Belgians? You’ve always been partial to conquest, and war is good for those who wish to cement their power.”

Périer returned the kiss, and then pushed Gisquet gently back so he could look at him. “War’s also good for business. You need this, Henri; I know the bank could do with the state’s credit.” 

“I’m not unaware. What else do I get out of this for my troubles?”

“The state would owe you a great debt. The government would hold to the centre. And those who would have steered France back towards the kings, or towards the people, would be discredited.”

Périer knew he did not need to say more: he could see the fire in Gisquet’s eyes. “I want to be Finance Minister.”

“Start as Prefect of Police,” Périer said briskly, and suppressed a shiver; in the gathering dusk, the room had become too cold to linger in, even for him. “When I am Prime Minister, Treilhard will be the first to go.”

Gisquet made a sound of assent. He watched as Périer began to dress, making no move towards his own clothes.

“How do we make sure the scandal sticks against Soult?”

Périer refastened his shirt, and drew on his cravat. “Doubtless we can count on the support of the republican newspapers. Wasn’t Marrast your colleague at that old society?”

“I know him well. Marrast isn’t easily controlled.”

Périer glanced across at Gisquet. Draped casually across the day-bed, seemingly impervious to the cold, his protégé had never seemed more captivating: the common man lounging amongst haute bourgeoise surroundings at the peak of his virile strength, an embodiment of France herself at this particular crossroads. 

With that power joined to Périer’s once again, they would either conquer the world or perish in the attempt. There was only one certainty — that their journey would be preserved in the annals of history, for good or for ill.

“You’ll find a way to get him fixated on Soult. And you’ll also develop a thicker skin for this business, Henri, if you’re to be my Prefect of Police.”

 

 

**May 1832**

Spring had come early in the countryside of remote Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes, but it had come late to Paris — and in so coming, it had set the stage for the spread of cholera, as the people huddled together for warmth and fell victim to the miasmas arising from putrid trenches in the middle of the streets. 

The epidemic had seized the city by the throat, striking down the high and low born alike. In the last month alone, they had averaged almost a hundred deaths per day. General Lamarque had been seized by the dreaded disease, as had other even more eminent personages. 

It was a public menace that had to be stopped. Henri Gisquet, Prefect of Police in Paris, would pressgang all necessary sanitation inspectors and scour the sewers and conquer this plague if he had to tear the city’s stinking gutters from under its very foundations, brick by damned brick.

He didn’t care what anyone said about his methods, although the newspapers were in fact saying quite a lot about them. Today’s issue of La Tribune shouted: _GISQUET FINALLY ISSUES STATEMENT ABOUT POISONING PUBLIC WELLS!_

“You’re not doing at all well at keeping the press in check,” remarked one of Paris’ most eminent personages, with a trace of his old acerbic edge.

Casimir Périer, France’s 9th Prime Minister while he yet drew breath, reclined on the satin sheets of the large neo-classical bed that adorned the principal bed-chamber of the Chateau de Vizille. Casimir’s eldest brother Augustin-Charles had made the Périer family home in Grenoble available for Casimir’s convalescence; when Casimir had been well enough to travel at the end of April, the vast carriage had been sent to convey him away from the diseased streets of Paris to Vizille, and here he was, installed in pride of place.

Gisquet had set his responsibilities aside to accompany the Périer household on the journey. He had been recalled to Paris shortly after, to address this poisoning nonsense, but had returned as soon as he could get away. Some things were more important than even duty, and the health of France’s Prime Minister was of utmost importance to Paris.

It happened also to be of utmost importance to her Prefect of Police.

“I’m not, confound it. Marrast has never forgiven us for that defamation suit.” Gisquet seated himself on the edge of the bed, and took the newspaper away from his Prime Minister. “That is to say, he has never forgiven _me_. You came out of the guns episode smelling of roses, as you always do.”

Gisquet had been quite pleased with his management of the newspaper coverage of the guns scandal. It had taken many late dinners at which the details of the defective merchandise had been revealed, morsel by morsel. In the end Gisquet had resorted to leaving a document demonstrating the War Ministry’s involvement on his, Gisquet’s, bedside table for Marrast to find, post-tryst. Gisquet liked to believe it was his own personal charms that had blinded Marrast to the reality that he’d been exploited; by which time the stories about corruption and Royalist collusion had spread like wildfire, and Marshall Soult had needed no urging to commence defamation proceedings.

Périer smiled thinly. His tall, handsome frame had grown skeletal from disease; the usual ruddy colour in his cheeks still bore cholera’s characteristic pallor. The doctors said he had not yet turned the corner, but Gisquet had to believe he was on the road to recovery.

“Laffitte and Soult’s disgrace left the field open for me. Also, contracting a deadly disease in the line of duty seems to make one quite popular with the people! Not that I would recommend it, mind you.”

Gisquet had to clench his fist against the hot surge of emotion. He hadn’t managed to prove that the patient who had given cholera to the Prime Minister during Périer’s April visit to the Hotel-Dieu had been bribed — the man was dead now, at any rate — but that hadn’t stopped Gisquet from thoroughly investigating the bank accounts of Jean-de-Dieu Soult. Soult, too, had not forgiven them for the guns episode that had been his ruin; unlike Marrast, the former Minister for War had known precisely where the responsibility had lain, and had had the financial means as well as temperament for revenge.

Périer leaned forward, with some effort, and laid his hand over Gisquet’s. “There’s no proof, Henri. Besides, the deed cannot be undone. You would better serve our plans by putting revenge aside and dealing more cleverly with the matters at hand.”

Regaining control once again, Gisquet clasped Périer’s thin, wasted fingers as gently as he could. “And you need to get well. I clearly can’t navigate these things without you.”

“Nonsense,” the Prime Minister said, briskly. “You’d manage without me, as you are managing now. You’ve managed to persuade Andre Chabouillé to remain in his role, haven’t you?

“Yes. Though it was not an easy task.” Gisquet smiled a little at the memory of his sparring matches with the powerful Secretary of the Prefecture’s First Bureau, and then, of a rather different sort of sparring match, which he had been willing to lose if it had meant gaining Chabouille’s trust. 

“Well, then. What do the two of you intend to do about the insurgency in the streets? If Lamarque dies after I do, and our man Soult finds his way back into Louis-Philippe’s good graces, he’ll see a way to swing the pendulum away from the common man.”

“Chabouillé has his spies on the ground. We have our eye on a couple of the ringleaders who might seek to start something if Lamarque dies. There is this one man, Charles Jeanne — he was injured fighting in the July Revolution; the King gave him a medal.” Gisquet frowned to himself. The young man was idealistic and well-meaning, which made him actually dangerous. Still — “We’ll try our best to keep Jeanne and his fellows contained. For his sake, and that of Jeanne’s aged mother, as much as for Paris’s.”

Périer nodded, and Gisquet took advantage of this approval to add, reprovingly, “And as for your last remark about dying — I will not have it, do you hear me? You are on the mend. Another fortnight, and you will be fit as a fiddle again.”

Périer chuckled, a thin sound that held nothing of his former robustness. “Even if I do recover, it is possible that other hands might do better at the tiller. Adolphe Thiers, for instance, is fairly popular, as is the duke of Broglie. And, though we have had our differences, our young prince Ferdinand has grown into quite a sensible man, who may be a better king than his father.”

Three years ago, the knowledge that his former patron had taken up with the old Dauphin had filled Gisquet with jealous rage; now, Périer’s pronouncement of fondness for yet another prince merely made Gisquet wistful. Either they were both getting soft in their older years, or Gisquet was finally learning not to begrudge any time his Prime Minister and beloved friend had left.

Gisquet ventured: “In my own view, it would be good, and also popular, to give more power to the Chamber of Deputies, and permit the commercial middle-class to participate in future elections. After all, as you have said, the common man should be allowed to rise above his humble origins, for the good of France.” 

Périer considered this. He allowed Gisquet to help him drink from the glass at his bedside, and then to help resettle him against his silken pillows again. The afternoon light streamed in from the window, the thin golden light from the mountains that heralded a glorious Grenoble sunset. 

“You may be right, Henri. In any case, this may be a matter for Ferdinand, or Adolphe, or, who knows, perhaps even for you.”

Struggling to contain his emotion, Gisquet murmured, “Paris would not be the same without you in it. Long ago, I said that my place was at your side. When you recover, perhaps you would wish to take a long convalescence overseas, with me.” 

For a moment, Périer’s eyes shone as brightly as they had twenty years ago — when he had first looked upon a young man with no money and no means save for his burning ambition, and welcomed him into his business as well as his bed. 

He hesitated, and then he nodded his still-handsome head.

“As it happens, I have always wanted to see Cairo. You can bring your attractive young son-in-law-to-be to help with the valises, and the other arrangements.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is obviously a work of speculative fiction and not to be taken as representative of historical events or the historical characters portrayed, especially of MM. Laffitte and Soult. (Albeit that one can't defame the deceased.)
> 
> This AU attempts a theory for the “whole proof” behind the Gisquet guns scandal; together with the mystery as to how it is that [Henry Joseph Gisquet](https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henri_Gisquet) went from being one of the architects of the July 1830 Revolution -- which, in defending press freedoms and the rights of the middle classes, ended up overthrowing the Bourbon dynasty of Charles X and establishing the [July Monarchy](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/July_Monarchy) of Louis-Philippe I -- to, barely two years later, in July 1832, a Prefect of Police who would oppressively suppress the June 1832 Rebellion and trample on the freedoms of the press and the common man.
> 
> The guns scandal: IRL, in November 1830, Gisquet was commissioned by the government of the July Monarchy (then headed by Prime Minister Jacques Laffitte, of which Périer was the President of the Chamber of Deputies, and Jean-de-Dieu Soult its Minister of War) with the purchase of 200,000 rifles from England. The opposition press, chief among them the Tribune’s editor Armand Marrast (who was a colleague of Gisquet's at [Republican society Aide-toi, le ciel t'aidera](https://fr.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aide-toi,_le_ciel_t%27aidera)), printed various stories about this suspicious purchase of rifles — which were apparently defective, and for which an overly high price had been paid — accusing the Soult ministry of corruption (and of participating in a Carlist conspiracy on behalf of the Duchess de Berry, who was determined to restore the Bourbon line via her son to the throne). Marrast was hauled to court on defamation charges, and found liable. All guns scandal details, from the unit price to Rothschild’s involvement, are taken from the court papers [here](https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k5545923z/f12.image.texteImage). 
> 
> Despite this, the guns scandal was never resolved, and continued to dog the government and Gisquet, culminating in another defamation suit in 1838 that marked the end of Gisquet’s career.
> 
> In this AU, Gisquet isn't a true republican; he's merely cross that his daddy has a new friend. Plus, the Bourbon conspiracy theory has the right of it, but it's not the full story. Gisquet and Périer manage their path to power rather better by giving Marrast (and the King) a scapegoat, and Louis-Philippe is forced to support Casimir given that Laffitte and also Soult were disgraced ;) 
> 
> IRL, in April 1832, Périer contracted cholera under suspicious circumstances and met an untimely death; thereafter (an undoubtedly grief-stricken) Gisquet embarked on an oppressive campaign to suppress the June Rebellion and trample on the freedoms of the press et cetera. Cholera details [here](https://www.persee.fr/doc/r1848_1155-8806_1928_num_25_127_1138). Here, an optimistic reader might hope that Périer survives to accompany Gisquet on his travels in Egypt with son-in-law Jules-Ernest Nay, as detailed meticulously in [Memoires de M. Gisquet, Ancien Prefet de Police (ecrit par lui-meme), 1840 ](https://books.google.com.sg/books?id=ldeifPzSpw4C&printsec=frontcover#v=onepage&q&f=false%22).


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